where the day ends
by asukane
Summary: "I am not drunk," she declared, "I'm just slow-ber." She laughed at her own joke, blowing away the hair that had fallen in front of her eyes with a puff of breath. "Ok," she admitted, "I might have had a few shots."


_**A/N -** just a quick one based off some dialogue prompts on tumblr. I promise I am still writing my ongoing stories, i'm just in the middle of a really busy time at the moment, but i will get around to it. _

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"Mary? You didn't say you were -"

"Hi, Matthew!" Her voice came out as a slur. There was a ghost of a smile on her lips as she stumbled across the threshold of his doorway, leaving her keys forgotten in the lock, tripping a little on his rug and then bumping shoulder-first into the wall before he gripped her arms quickly to steady her.

She carried a strong smell of alcohol, and he blinked dumbly before retrieving her keys and closing the door behind her. His nose tingled slightly at the distinctive smell and he looked her up and down a few times as she found her way into his living room. Her step remained unsteady until she flopped backward onto his sofa, giving a hiccup and closing her eyes.

He came over slowly, dropping her keys down on the table. Mary hadn't seemed quite right in the last few days. Matthew could see it. Her smiles seemed less genuine, her eyes possessing less of their usual lustre when she teased him. She was far more distant. Far less apt to answer the phone. He knew something was wrong – really wrong – he'd received some tip-offs from Robert over the phone and as he knelt in front of her, watching her giggle to herself at something he could only guess at, he knew it was time he had to say something.

He took her feet into his hands, one by one, and carefully pulled off each of her shoes. He gently kissed one of her ankles before he placed them back to the floor, letting her toes wriggle in the warm carpet.

She laughed, leaning forward and poking his nose. "Undressing a girl the moment she walks in!" She slurred with a dopey grin. "Mr Crawley, you devil!"

Matthew chuckled a little, but it was half-hearted.

Mary hummed, hands fumbling forward and tugging up at the hem of his football shirt.

Matthew stopped her, taking her wrists gently in his hands and pulling them off before she could remove his shirt. He kissed the inside of one and placed them back into her lap.

"You're drunk," he told her softly. His eyes looked at her kindly and his lips felt wondrously soft when he leaned up to kiss her cheek before turning to grab his phone. He wrote out a text Tom, telling him he wouldn't be able to make it to the pub to watch the match, and he found he didn't mind much – United weren't winning anyway and Mary needed him more.

Mary unscrewed the lid of her half-empty bottle of vodka and Matthew tried to protest but ultimately failed and winced as she took another long drink.

"You, Matthew Crawley, should be aware that it is ungentlemanly to tell Ladies they are drunk."

"Well, Mary Crawley," he shot back, teasing, "you should be aware that Ladies do not show up at gentlemen's apartments, drunk."

"I am not drunk," she declared, "I'm just slow-ber."

She laughed at her own joke, blowing away the hair that had fallen in front of her eyes with a puff of breath.

"Ok," she admitted, "I might have had a few shots."

Her eyes struggled to focus on him as he came back toward her, so she stood up, letting the lid to her bottle drop on the floor. Her smile was tight, and he raised one of his thumbs to smooth the creases between her eyebrows as she neared him, coming so close she could feel his body heat.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. Matthew ran his fingers in circles over her back, gently running the ridges of his knuckles down her spine. He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek there until he felt the liquid from her bottle running down his neck.

He winced, shifting. "Mary…" he began, lifting a hand to pry the bottle from her tight grasp. She resisted, but then relented as she caught his eye, allowing him to take it and put it down on the table.

She smiled again but knew he could tell there was no heart behind it. She watched him and she could see it – how her pain was reflected in him – and found it hard to keep looking. She closed her eyes, leaning to tuck her head under his chin.

She felt his fingers sifting through her hair and tried desperately to breathe him in. Their feet shuffled in a strange semblance of a dance.

"You're beautiful," she murmured, "you know that?"

She meant it. He was beautiful. Matthew wasn't perfect by any means – he had his moments of being unable to see past the end of his nose – but although he could be just as stubborn as her, he was never unloving. His intentions could be misguided, but they were always good. Whatever he did, he did because he thought it was right and there, even whilst thoroughly inebriated with a jarring headache, she was acutely aware of just how much he loved her. That was Matthew – always loving, even when she was doing her best to shut him out or, like then, when she was a complete mess, failing at pulling herself together. To her that made him beautiful.

He felt her shiver a little and he wrapped her more tightly in his embrace. She tipped her head, so her forehead pressed to his shoulder and she looked down over his chest and legs to stare at the floor beneath his feet. She felt her throat tighten like it was swelling, heat burning behind her eyes. She struggled to hold herself together, taking deep, quiet breaths and praying he wouldn't notice the wetness where her tears soaked through his shirt.

She hated crying. She hated any show of weakness. What she hated more, was that on the rare occasion she did succumb to tears it was often in his presence. She often wondered how he managed to exercise so much patience when it came to her moods, because she seldom told him why she felt a certain way and it often took a lot of tolerance and persistence on his part for her to eventually stop pushing him out.

He felt her shaking but said nothing; he knew by now it was better if he let her speak, set the pace of the conversation when she was ready. He held her a little tighter, though. He lifted one of his palms and stroked over the back of her head, fingers sifting a little through her hair.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she managed. Her throat ached. She tried to blink back her tears, but it only caused more to fall.

"It's ok to cry," he murmured in return. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and then leant his cheek there.

"I'm trying to…" she didn't finish the sentence. "Mama…" But she couldn't speak anymore.

"She's still ill?" He kept his voice gentle, trying not to sound as shocked as he was.

She nodded against him and then drew back, looking at him in questioning.

"Your dad phoned me. He was worried about you."

Her head swam, throbbing more acutely as she rolled her eyes at how typical that was of her father. He worried about her too much. So did Matthew, it seemed.

"They moved her to hospital a couple of days ago."

"Oh… darling." He rubbed the small of her back in tender circles.

"I've tried to get the time off work… but…"

She found it difficult to speak but he nodded anyway.

She breathed deeply but at the smell of all the alcohol in her own breath, she cringed. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, and she shifted as her whole body felt as though it was contorting. She pushed him away quickly, but her legs wobbled without him there to balance her. The drink seemed to flood her body all of a sudden and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut to delay the headrush.

"Matthew…" her throat tightened. "Oh god…"

He understood what was about to happen before she did. He lifted her up, carrying her quickly from the living room and into the bathroom. He managed to put her down just in time; he gathered her hair in one hand and soothed her back with the other as she gagged and retched in perfect misery.

"It's alright. You're alright."

She was dizzy and sweaty and delirious, but his voice helped her concentrate.

She groaned, feeling her whole chest cramp up. It hurt, and she couldn't breathe, and the feeling became overwhelming when she vomited again.

"This has got to be what death feels like…" she croaked, regretting it immediately as the nausea increased once again. She felt faint, desperately trying to capture her breath. "I'm going to die," she wheezed.

Somewhere, at the back of her deoxygenated, alcohol filled brain she registered his hand rubbing the base of her neck and a realisation dawned on her that she was quite safe. The notion that Matthew would let her die seemed ridiculous.

"Don't be silly," he murmured. "You're not going to die. You're going to be alright in a little while."

"Ughh," she dropped her forehead against her arm and took as deep a breath as she could manage.

"I'll get you a glass of water."

The next thing she registered was his hands on her arms, encouraging her to sit back on her haunches. He handed her the glass and rubbed her lower back as she took small sips at a time. She felt wretched and the pain in her head grew more and more insistent until she wasn't sure if her lack of vision was due to the thick film of tears gathered in her eyes or a full-blown migraine.

Once her stomach had settled, Matthew gathered her up and brought her through to his bedroom. She leant against him with her eyes closed, but he knew better than to wonder if she was asleep. He knew that once she'd calmed down, and the alcohol had gone from her system, she'd feel embarrassed by her display of emotion. She loved him, he knew that, but he also knew that she didn't like him to see her when she was upset. It made her feel weak somehow, as if any kind of expression of how she felt had tampered somewhat with how she saw herself. It seemed to waver her usually so steadfast confidence.

He was careful to walk slowly and evenly so as not to make her even more uncomfortable that she already was. He helped her to lie down on his bed, finding her a hairband and a wipe for her make-up in amongst her bathroom things.

"You haven't left any of your pyjamas here." He was rooting around for something comfortable that she could wear in his wardrobe and drawing a blank. Usually, there seemed to be more of her clothes than his, but nothing suitable for sleep, it seemed.

"Just chuck me a t-shirt and a pair of boxers," she mumbled, giving as much of a smile as she could manage through the rather colossal headache.

He came to sit beside her at the edge of the bed, the clean clothes in hand, gently tucking stray hair behind her ear.

"I'll put them on in a minute," Mary managed, "I can't move just yet – my head hurts too much."

"That's what happens when you drink your weight in vodka," he commented dryly.

"Please don't lecture me, Matthew. I'm paying for it now."

He softened as she groaned with the pain. "I know. I know." He bent down and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry."

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the head of the bed. She cringed in concentration as she undid the buttons on her blouse. Her fingers fumbled.

"Here," he put his hands over hers, soothing the backs of them with his thumbs. "Let me."

She closed her eyes, humming. "Now you really are trying to get my clothes off."

He chuckled gently. "Well, it's one of my talents."

She helped him by pulling her arms from her sleeves, allowing him to move the cuffs over her hands and tug the fabric away from her skin. He unclipped her bra and pulled the straps over her shoulders and off her arms. "Arms up," he murmured, helping her on with his t-shirt, mindful of her hurting head as he did so. He wondered how much of this she would remember when morning came. Whether she'd remember leaning forward and headbutting his shoulder as he carefully shimmied her jeans down her legs. Whether she'd remember the way he laughed when she randomly licked his nose or if she'd recall grasping his sleeve to wipe her eyes. Perhaps she'd recollect how many sexual jokes she made as he helped her pull his boxers over her hips or the way she curled her body close to his outstretched legs, lying her head down in his lap, allowing him to stroke her hair back in rhythmic motions with the palm of his hand. The tears that were not brushed aside by the pads of his thumbs seeped into his jeans where she nuzzled against his thighs. He listened as her breathing evened. It didn't take long for her to fall asleep, as exhausted as she was, and he extricated himself carefully from under her because of it. Not wanting to risk waking her by the movement of dragging the covers out from underneath her, he took some blankets from his cupboard and laid them over her, shifting her head so she lay more evenly on his pillows.

He smiled at the little noises she made. She hummed and breathed in deeply. She wriggled her nose and shifted gently. Matthew sighed. He'd finish his work and watch the match tomorrow. He removed his shoes, socks and jeans, fishing another t-shirt from his drawer and putting it on before settling into bed behind her.

Perhaps he'd call Robert in the morning to sort something out. Perhaps he'd just call in sick and drive her up to Yorkshire himself. It didn't seem to matter. They'd work it out. Once she had sobered up and had some breakfast – she'd need a good one, with plenty of fluids after the night she'd had – he'd discuss it with her, but just then all he could do was kiss her shoulder and drape a bare arm over her waist.


End file.
